


Disassociative

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Body Worship, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vaginal Fingering, yandere behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25756345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: If devotion is the path of immortality and heedlessness is the path of death, Moriyama would rather be bitten by the venomous snake of desire than think twice about an endless existence if this life ends with you in it. You're all he wants, all he's thought about for days, weeks, months—and he will continue to crowd his mind with thoughts of you, even if it kills him.
Relationships: Moriyama Yoshitaka/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	Disassociative

Moriyama knows that his hands are cold against your skin by the shiver that trespasses down the length of your spine. He delights in the way you shudder and the way the cords move against your shoulders when you try to shake yourself free of their bonds. Your lips are soft beneath his fingertips when he traces their shape, dampened by saliva despite the thick fold of cotton forming a makeshift gag between them.

When he shifts his fingers again it's so he can rest his hand delicately on the curve of your shoulder, bare save for the thin straps of your bra. He walks his long digits along the bone while he smooths moisture into his lips, his eyes burning bright against the shadows swamping his vision. He watches your gaze shift from his face to his throat when it works down a swallow of anticipation.

“I can feel how nervous you are,” he says, his voice scratching just above a whisper. “You're shaking, but you don't have to be scared. I'm going to take care of you.” He drops into a crouch and rests his hands on the tops of your trembling thighs. “I want to worship you.” He lowers his gaze to your bare legs and drags the soft weight of his palms across your skin. “You must know that's why I brought you here.”

He watches the loose strands of your hair sweep across your forehead when you manage a dissenting shake of your head that indicates protest. He furrows his brow and reaches out to touch your face, his fingers light and searching against the contour of your cheek.

“You don't?” He worries the bottom line of his mouth between the white edges of his teeth. “I thought I'd made myself perfectly clear when I brought you into my home. I worked so hard to get you here, to make you comfortable. I wanted you to see how much you mean to me. That's why I made sure to inject you with the safest drug I could find. I did my research because for as much as this passion I feel for you is detrimental to me, I didn't want to cause you any lasting damage.” He presses his palm against the line of your jaw and holds it there in a loving gesture. “Even considering all the pain you've put me through, I still love you.”

He lowers his head and plants a trail of kisses along the inside of your thigh until he's close enough to your apex to nose your scent. He moans a quiet sound in the back of his throat, and when he lifts his head again, his eyes are glazed with heat and a breed of darkness that clearly unnerves you. Your fear is tangible and to his surprise, it imbues him with a scale of excitement that he's never experienced before.

“I fashioned this room just for you too,” he continues, something catching in the shadow of his throat. “I spent nearly all of my savings to make everything look just right but it was worth it to me.” His mouth curves on a pleased smile, indicative of his self-made success. “ _You're_ worth everything to me.”

Moriyama shakes a section of hair out of his eyes and pins you beneath his gaze like a butterfly to a board. “You're so beautiful, so perfect...” he trails off, absentmindedly chasing a bead of sweat down the smooth column of your neck. “I can't live with the thought of you not being a part of my life again. I've needed you so badly.”

He pushes himself into standing and gingerly brushes his fingers over your collarbone as he circles around to the back of the chair you're bound to. He checks the labyrinthine network of ropes around your wrists and strokes his fingers over the thrum of your pulse as confirmation that this is more than a mere figment of his imagination. He exhales a sigh of relief when he feels the steady beat, pulsing strongly in your veins, and returns to his previous post.

Moriyama forces every grain of his reverence and affection for you into his gaze when he looks down at you. He notes how your head hangs limply between your shoulders and a thin strand of saliva falls from the center of your swollen lips, only to succumb to gravity and break off somewhere near your abdomen. He reaches out with his index and middle fingers and presses skin against skin to tip your head upright.

“You're dislocated,” Moriyama says softly, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don't be like that. I want to see you smile. I want to feel the foretaste of your anticipation, whether it's longing or fear or trepidation, I want it all.” He curls his fingers around the hem of his shirt and tugs the thin material over his head in a swift motion that bespeaks his grace. “I want to strip you out of your clothes and see all the way down to your soul. I want your love and devotion, and above all else, I want to be a part of your every emotion.”

You try to frame your lips on speech but the only sound that makes it past the boundary of cotton and fiber stuffed between your lips is a nervous whine. Moriyama runs his fingers through your hair and lets the smooth edges of his nails scrape along the line of your scalp.

“I already told you that you don't need to be scared. I swear on my life that I only want to take care of you.” Moriyama drags his thumb across your bottom lip before disappearing from your line of sight. He returns almost as quickly as he left, a pair of scissors in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He sets the glass on the floor and drops to his knees with the glinting edge of silver catching in the hazy yellow light above.

“I should have had the foresight to strip you completely before tying you up,” he says, his voice touching on an afterthought rather than a direct statement. “But you looked so gorgeous like this. I like to leave a little to the imagination, you know?” he muses aloud, tipping his head to the side while offering up a charming smile. Then he tugs a section of your panties away from your skin and carefully slides the cool edge of the scissors against your hip before snipping through the material with ease. “I can't wait to dress you in my clothes. I know that they'll look great on you,” he continues, shifting over to your opposite hip to repeat the previous action.

He stares at the withered edges of your panties like an artist marveling at the patent energy of their magnum opus. After a brief moment, his focus returns to him and he tosses aside the scissors in favor of touching your skin. He caresses your thighs and thumbs the places he kissed before finally reaching the ruined fabric between your legs.

You clamp your legs together and Moriyama attempts to soothe you with a warm smile. “Don't be nervous. It's my first time too.” He ignores your muffled whimpers and the growing ache that spreads to tension in the low of his abdomen as he wedges a hand between your thighs. It takes a moment to draw the material away from your skin but as soon as success brushes his fingertips, Moriyama is fitting his hand against the heat he's longed to touch since he first laid eyes on you.

“Your skin is so hot,” he mutters, lips staying parted on a shallow breath. He closes his eyes and begins to explore the foundation of your sex like an ardent architect at work. He slips his fingers between your folds and gently thumbs your clit before making his way down to the sex that has betrayed you with responsive desire.

Moriyama's breath hitches when he slips a single digit into your entrance, his touch inquisitive and searching. He pushes himself deeper, crooks his finger in a way that has you squirming in equal amounts of protest and want. He wets his lips and cracks open his eyes just enough to fix his gaze on his ministrations, but it's not nearly enough, and after a short pause he withdraws his touch.

He effortlessly unties the knots binding your legs and makes quick work of the rope encircling your calves and ankles until each leg is parallel to the chair's wooden posts. He works quietly and efficiently, wasting not a single second of precious time. When he's finished, he hums something like satisfaction and strokes the marks on your calves.

“Just looking at you this way is enough to stop my heart,” Moriyama rasps, his voice catching like honey in the raw heat of his throat. He shifts on the floor and slides himself forward a fraction, putting himself in direct line with the wide angle of your thighs. He plants a chaste kiss on the inside of your knee and fits his hand between your legs, access coming much easier now that he's opened you up to him.

“Every part of you spells perfection. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? How intoxicating?” Moriyama brushes a finger against your entrance and eases it past the tension he's met with slowly. “The way you feel, the way you smell, it's enough to drive me insane. Every part of you is stimulating. It rouses something within me that makes me want to tear into you like an animal.” He twists his wrist and fits a second finger in alongside the first, stretching you around his studious digits with more give than he expects.

You cant your hips and Moriyama reads the motion as encouragement. He fucks into you a little bit harder, directs his touch deeper, and turns expectancy into a concordance of begging requests and answers in the affirmative. His eyes are half-lidded and clouded by desire, and his lips remain parted for breath he can't seem to get enough of. He focuses on the smooth slide of skin-on-skin, the friction of heat and the draw of arousal, the sound of slick and motion and playful protest.

He inhales the heady scent of desire and suddenly the ache becomes too much to bear. He lowers his free hand to the painful stretch of denim that's constraining his cock and begins to work free the button and zip on his jeans. He wishes that he'd had the foresight for this, too, because a pair of gym shorts would have been far more forgiving than the crushing stitches of his rare Oni denim. Hindsight is 20/20, however, and Moriyama refuses to let anything come between this moment and his future with you.

He breathes a long sigh of relief when his cock finally springs free and he's able to close his fingers around its length. He strokes over himself several times while maintaining a level of consistency with his opposite hand, his fingers still buried knuckle-deep inside of you. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and bucks his hips, fucking into his fist with practiced ease. Notwithstanding the promise of pleasure, Moriyama refrains from capitulating to the arousal cresting in his veins. He doesn't want to come like this, not when he's put so much hard work toward this moment.

He slowly withdraws his fingers from your body and holds them up to the light, observing the slick on his skin and the way the transparent threads break between his digits when he scissors his fingers. He notes the way your cheeks flush with embarrassment and grins, loving the impact he's making on your self-confidence and the support that makes up your backbone. He feels like he's finally got you in his hands, holding you like a fallen solider who clings to life. It tastes like victory and fills him with a sense of superiority that he's never felt before now. It's bittersweet and he wants more, so he hands himself over to avarice and sucks his fingers into his mouth to quell the hunger scratching at the surface of his skin.

Moriyama moans against the intrusion as he curls his tongue around his fingers and drinks the moisture from his salt-warm skin. He feels his cock twitch in alertness, heavy and swollen with full-awareness that begs for release. He removes his fingers from his mouth and wraps the spit-slick digits around his cock briefly, smearing moisture into his skin along with a bead of precome.

“You taste better than I even imagined and I didn't think that was possible,” he says, his words like a confession on his lips. He shapes his palms against the bend of your knees and fits himself between your feet. He uses your fixed position to keep his balance and leans forward just enough to drag the tip of his tongue up your slit. You shudder at the contact and the dig of Moriyama's mouth curves on an arrogant smirk.

“Does this feel better than having my fingers inside of you?” he asks, knowing that he won't get a verbal response. He flicks his tongue out again, aiming for your clit this time. You whimper against the handmade gag in your mouth, now dry and sore, and involuntarily chase his salacious touch.

He chuckles lowly and presses himself in closer against your sex. He pushes the flat of his tongue against your center and drags it up slowly, teasingly, making sure to touch every inch of your flesh before switching direction. He fits a hand in between your thighs and spreads you open with two fingers in order to penetrate your entrance with the tip of his tongue. He manipulates your sex like a desert man thirsty for rain. He drinks you with a sense of urgency, a penitent who begs for forgiveness only to commit the same crime over and over again.

He makes you feel like you're in the valley of the shadow of death, only he's the shadow and you're the valley he's trespassing on. Everything he does, he does for you, and you're repaying him in the most intimate way possible. He's braved the forest and the stone, braved the repercussions of wrongdoing, and carried out his desires under the watchful eyes of the angels who will no longer offer him a home.

But he doesn't care. He doesn't care about Nirvana or the transient things that sweep the celestial realm. If devotion is the path of immortality and heedlessness is the path of death, Moriyama would rather be bitten by the venomous snake of desire than think twice about an endless existence if this life ends with you in it. You're all he wants, all he's thought about for days, weeks, _months_ —and he will continue to crowd his mind with thoughts of you, even if it kills him.

He thinks about his life without you, thinks about your life with someone else, and it chokes the breath out of his lungs. He gently drags the cool edges of his teeth over your clit and delights in the cry that melts against the dry of your throat. He dips his fingers in the glass of water near the leg of the chair you're trembling in and immediately fits them back inside of you. He flicks the tip of his tongue over your clit and fucks you on his fingers like time itself is running out. He braces himself against the inside of your leg and utilizes his free hand in the most productive way possible. He begins working himself into a frenzy, pushing himself closer and closer to his Utopian vision.

When the moon has completely eclipsed the sun, Moriyama emits a cry of undisguised pleasure that rivals the howls of the wolves circling the woods outside. His body quakes as the sticky ribbons of his release slick his fingers and viscous droplets of come stain the floor. He should feel dirty and soiled and reprehensible but he feels none of these things; he feels sanctified and purified and hallowed by the sordid motives running through his veins. He can hear ringing in his ears and visions of his future with you scrape through his head like the many dreams he's had before.

His breath hitches and his limbs twitch with tiny shocks of electricity that chase the weight of his pleasure as he comes down from the heights of his orgasm. His fingers continue to move inside of you but the motion lacks the desperation that controlled his movements only a moment ago. Now, he fucks into you idly, inquisitive and almost analytical. He wants to memorize you like the maps he drew prior to enacting his plan to capture you. He wants to spread through you like an infection in the places where he plans to spill his seed. He wants to own you, to hold you like a possession in his own rite. He wants it all, every part of you, and if he were just a little more mentally sound, he'd be starting to scare himself.

When Moriyama rips an orgasm out of your bound hands, he doesn't see the act of submission as the involuntary resignation that it is. He sees it in the light of success and compliance; he _feels_ it in the name of liberation.

“You're such a good girl,” he tells you softly, a lazy smile on his lips and satisfaction behind the dark lines of his lashes. He removes his touch from inside of you and wipes the slick coating his fingers on the curve of your thigh. It's a pointless gesture, however, since he licks the fine sheen of arousal away from your skin soon afterward.

“I've always wanted a girl I could call my own. I've tried for so long to find the right one but none of them were suited to my needs. Not until I found you.” Moriyama pushes himself into standing but not before grabbing the glass of water off the floor. He reaches for the fabric that's been stuffed in your mouth and delicately pulls it away from your lips. He stares at you in the likeness that a hungry animal watches its next meal, knowing that it's going to win the fight that's quick to follow.

He slips the fabric down to your chin as he raises the glass to your lips. He shifts his gaze to the water that trickles down your skin as too much of the clear liquid spills from the glass at once. “Drink up,” he says, adoration lining his mouth as the beverage fills the cracks that score your lips. “You're going to need your strength.”

“Why?” is all you manage, as sharp as all the salt in the sea and speaking for much more than this one question.

And at heart, Moriyama knows this, he knows that you want answers, that you _need_ to understand why he's chosen you. But it's easier to overlook the truth so he settles on a response that echoes everything with one voice. “Because I'm going to show you how much you mean to me.”

Moriyama slides his hand through your messy strands and lets the glass slip from his fingers. It shatters against the concrete floor in a mess of glinting shards incapable of producing a proper reflection. Moriyama circles around the base of your restraints until he's standing beyond the limits of your sight. He bends at the waist and exhales hotly against the back of your neck when he speaks.

“I've been working my fingers down to the bone for you. Now it's time for you to repay me.” Your skin is warm, almost too warm against his fingertips when he rests his hand on your shoulder. The silence that stretches between you is short but it feels like an eternity before his voice breaks the absence of sound.

“Let's see how long it takes for you to fall in love with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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